We got a late start today due to continuing technical problems. Fred had to taxi out to the suburbs to get new pedals as I grappled with tires once again. After battling rude and dangerous drivers for the first few kilometers, we were surprised and relieved to find bike path running parallel to our intended route. It was full of fellow cyclists, too. Through miles and miles of suburban apartment blocks, we followed a pair of shirtless young Poles like greyhounds chasing a mechanical rabbit. Then a voice beside us said something in Polish. It was Jan, our angel du jour.
When he learned we were Americans, he spoke to us in perfect and articulate English as he pedaled alongside us. With his ponytail and casual manner, Jan would look right at home in Silicon Valley, so it came as no surprise when he told us he writes code for a living (\"I prefer riding my bike,\" he added). He also explained the presence of the bike path and all the other cyclists, saying that everyone was headed to a forest a few kilometers beyond, where the bike path would abruptly end, forcing us onto a busy highway. Fortunately, our willing and able guide knew of an alternate route.
He led us down a labyrinth of country lanes, past elegant country homes, rolling meadows and dikes holding back the waters of the mighty Vistula (a.k.a. Wisla). At one point he asked us if we wanted to see an old Polish manor house, and soon we were poking around inside an elegant old place which was obviously private. Jan said it belonged to an organization of writers. He had the good sense to put on a tee shirt before entering, but that didn't keep us from getting thrown out by a security dude. \"But these are important visitors from California,\" Jan pleaded to no avail, our sweaty cycling gear hardly befitting visiting dignitaries.
After another stop in an orchard to steal plums, anarchistic Jan took us to the restaurant he always stops at on his bike rides, where we had salads and beers. Everyone there knew him, including many of the other customers, and they all shook his hand while looking at us with bewilderment and curiosity. Then we were on the main road again, following Jan at a very brisk pace. After 50 kilometers of riding together, we parted ways, just outside the town of Warka. Beyond Warka the traffic dwindled to a trickle and we were able to enjoy our surroundings. Thick forests were interspersed with little villages and scenes of pastoral life: a hunched-over old man herding his cars home with a stick; two young girls on bicycles with their single cow; another ancient woman sitting in front of her hovel plucking a chicken.
The houses in this area are made of wood and barely distinguishable from barns or stables. Most had smoke coming out of their chimneys, which given the heat of the day were evidently being used for cooking. It almost felt like we'd been transported back to the Middle Ages. As the hot sun sunk into the horizon, people began to abandon their work and sit outside their houses, hoping to catch a cooling breeze. Many waved at us and smiled --behavior we hadn't really witnessed since Spain. Had we finally crossed to the south of the \"scowling line\"? It was almost totally dark by the time we got to the big, nasty, industrial town of Radom.
The only available lodging we could find was in a drab office building doubling as a hotel. Our two-room suite had been recently remodeled without using any natural materials or fibers; the beds, the shower, the carpeting and even the walls were made of plastic. After the usual ablutions we dried ourselves on the postage-stamp towels and went out in search of dinner, the only place still open being a very lively Laotian restaurant called \"A Million Elephants.\" Incredibly, the waitress provided us with an English version of the menu and brought us edible Asian food. I had to pinch myself to assure I wasn't hallucinating the whole thing.
After dinner, I could hardly manage to haul my ass up the three flights of stairs to our weird room/office. Forty-year-old Jan's stamina and pace had really done me in.